Summer at Grimmauld Place
by NotMarge
Summary: Stuck in the dark, forboding house of Black. Hunted and marked for death by their enemies. Who has time for romance, really? But then again . . .
1. Summer at Grimmauld Place

I do not own Harry Potter anything.

Reading the books, my son just found out about Snape. Blew his mind.

Summer at Grimmauld Place

* * *

She was in the drawing room, tidied and freshly cleaned by the newly revived Kreacher.

Reading, always reading.

Searching for a clue, a breadcrumb.

Smidgen of hope.

And finding nothing.

The door creaked and she looked up to see Ron entering the room.

"Hey," he smiled.

"Hey."

Ronald Weasley.

If someone had told her upon meeting him that first day on the Hogwarts Express, that she would one day fancy him, she would have gawked at their ridiculousness.

It just wasn't logical.

But now . . .

He wasn't generally thought of as handsome. Not like Victor Krum.

Flaming red hair. Freckles. Plain face.

He wasn't charming, he wasn't particularly bright. Sometimes, she had to admit, he was downright rude and selfish and dim.

Or had been.

There were so many 'wasn'ts', one might think she would be hard pressed to stumble upon a 'was'.

In the end, she could only surmise that he was Ron.

A boy who had, with the exception of the time when he and Harry were both acting like insufferable gits, always stood by his friends through thick and thin.

Near certain death and even worse she'd thought at times, expulsion.

A boy who, over the course of time, had begun looking outside of himself to comfort and support her.

And now they together stood in support of Harry Potter, marked for death by Lord Voldemort himself so many dark nights ago.

Who was now being actively hunted by not only the Dark Lord himself and his Death Eaters.

But also by the Ministry of Magic. Those ridiculously thickheaded, easily blinded or bought government officials who were hired to protect and serve.

But only managed to make more oppressive and trapped, the plight of all who did not align to their sense of entitlement.

She ground her teeth together in fury.

Turned the page in 'The Tales of Beetle the Bard' as Ron sat down near her.

She studiously ignored him.

And continued her desperate search.

She could feel his eyes on her face.

Hear his mouth wanting to speak words.

Sense his hand wanting to touch her arm or shoulder.

And she valiantly attempted to ignore that too.

Resolutely pushing her burgeoning feelings for Ronald Bilius Weasley into the back of her mind.

The imminent complete and absolute plunge of the entire Wizarding world into darkness and destruction was no time for romance.

No time at all.

Even if he was right there.

* * *

They had been getting closer for some time now.

Well, not in the physical sense.

After all, it was Hermione.

Hermione.

Not Lavender Brown.

He couldn't just grab Hermione and snog her silly.

He _wanted_ to but . . .

It was Hermione.

And she was different from every other girl ever.

So he moved carefully around her, gently.

He listened when she talked.

Held her when she needed support.

Encouraged her, tried to make her laugh when it all became a bit too much.

He cared for her.

Because she was Hermione.

And he was becoming more and more certain that he had deeper feelings for her than he had ever considered having for any girl.

That he loved her.

And she was so smart, so clever, so brillant a witch, that he really couldn't understand why she might have an eye for him.

Ronald Bilius Weasley.

Not strapping and brave like Bill or Charlie.

Not clever and charming like Fred and George.

But at least not an insufferable git like Percy.

Still, the quandary remained as to why she might fancy _him._

But it seemed she did.

Of course she wouldn't say.

She would never _say._

But the way that she looked at him sometimes.

Peeked when she thought he didn't see.

Or went ahead and gazed when he did.

The way she was so tough on him, he thought because she cared about what he said and did. Wanted him to be better than the rest.

But she wouldn't _say_.

And she wouldn't touch.

Even though he found himself reaching out and touching her more and more frequently.

Wiping away a speck on her cheek.

Putting an arm around her shoulder.

Staying close by when she seemed to prefer not to be alone.

Whatever he could do, he did.

Because it was Hermione.

And Ronald Weasley was pretty that if they survived all this, he wanted to be with her forever.

After they killed the Dark Lord and all.

* * *

 **Hello! Reading and watching Harry Potter with my son got my writing brain going.**

 **This is going to be relatively mild romance here so don't expect any smut or anything.**

 **But if that's good with you, then I hope you enjoy the fic. :)**

 **Everybody appreciates feedback. Leave a review if you like.**


	2. Spearmint Toothpaste

I do not own Harry Potter anything.

Reading the books, my son just found out about Snape. Blew his mind.

Summer at Grimmauld Place

Spearmint Toothpaste

* * *

Spearmint toothpaste.

Spearmint.

Toothpaste.

Of all the things.

It was one of the fragrances that had curled lovingly around her during Professor Slughorn's Love Potion experiment.

Wasn't too hard to explain, logically speaking.

Dentists, her parents were dentists.

Spearmint toothpaste made her think of home and happiness and family.

So, logical.

But . . .

There was another reason as well.

The reason that made her insides tingle.

That made her sensible brain stutter and her stalwart heart flutter.

Her. Hermione Jean Granger.

Turned inside out over spearmint toothpaste.

The reason she could not tell anyone.

Well, that wasn't true.

Once she had let it slip. Just once.

The Burrow.

Morning. After breakfast.

In the gnome infested garden.

Sitting together, talking.

Just talking.

Close, quite close. But not too close.

Of course not too close.

And she had, slightly intoxicated with the alluring aroma, forgot herself and slipped the question.

"What is that smell?"

He'd turned, clueless.

"What?"

She couldn't help herself.

"Spearmint?"

He'd nodded, baffled.

"What, my toothpaste?"

She'd suddenly and quite uncharacteristically become hypnotized by his mouth, having never considered spearmint toothpaste in that particular light before.

"Oh . . ."

Then mentally shaken herself.

"It's, uh, nice."

And quickly changed the subject.

Ron, his own face suddenly reddening with understanding, promised himself silently he would always keep a brush and tube with him at all times.

Just to see Hermione Granger sputter and fawn.

Over him.

Ron Weasley.

And he did.

He had, in fact, procured an entire case of the stuff.

Mum had been quite bewildered.

"What on _earth_ , Ron?"

He'd gifted her his most innocent expression.

"Mum, it pays to keep good dental hygiene, you've always said."

And then Fred and George had Apparated behind her, causing her to scream and wallop them about their heads.

And Ron and his spearmint toothpaste had made good their escape.

Spearmint toothpaste.

Hermione always knew he was near when the fragrance wafted into her nostrils.

Ah, spearmint.

Oh it was _ridiculous_.

She sighed.

Caught a ribbon of scent.

"Hello, Ronald."

And tried to stymie the dopey smile drifting across her face.

"How'd you know it was me?"

Innocent, so innocent.

But yeah, he knew.

Even so.

It was a little fun to play the game.

"No reason."

Ron grinned fondly at the back of her adorable head.

 _Mmm-hmm_.

* * *

 **Okay, not sure if this is cannon but honestly, what a cute thought!**

 **Well, anyway, your opinion next, yeah?**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, DinahRay, JeanandBilius (oh yes, love it!), and my mystery guest reviewer for your reading and reviews. Very gracious of you all.**

 **Thanks also to WinterWind14 for adding your support to this tale. :)**


	3. Time for Kreacher

I do not own Harry Potter anything.

Reading the books, my son just found out about Snape. Blew his mind.

Summer at Grimmauld Place

Time for Kreacher

* * *

"Will mistress be wanting a fire to read by?"

The Black house elf Kreacher, once so spiteful and rude, now seemed to have opened a new well of kindness aund consideration within himself since being gifted the false locket.

She smiled gently at him.

"No, thank you, Kreacher."

He nodded.

"A blanket?"

She shook her head.

"No, I'm fine, really."

Kreacher started to turn away, then paused.

"Not to interrupt, Mistress, but . . ."

He seemed to struggle with the boldness of his intrusion.

"Yes, Kreacher?"

Then his curiosity finally got the better of him.

"What is mistress reading?"

The question took her mildly by surprise. Kreacher didn't often seem prone to interests of their plans and schemes.

Only in the duties of his house elf status.

She felt rather proud of him.

"Oh. Well, it's a book Professor Dumbledore gave me. The Tales of Beedle the Bard."

Kreacher didn't seem to recognize the name.

"Have you heard of it?"

The ancient house elf shrugged a little.

"Mistress Black did not approve of children's stories. Denounced them as ridiculous and a waste of time."

No big surpise there. Mistress Black, well her portrait anyway, did not seem the type to snuggle up the children for a night time tale.

"Well, it's just a children's book. But I think there are clues somewhere inside that will help us defeat . . . You-Know-Who."

To his credit, the wizened creature barely flinched at the name.

He rubbed one shoulder self-consciously.

"Mistress is very brave preparing to face the Dark Lord."

For this Hermione had no response. She didn't feel brave. She felt scared and unprepared.

As she was struggling to formulate a response, another thought occurred to her.

"Kreacher, can you read?"

The house elf nodded.

"Of course, Mistress. House elves must be able to read to serve."

Serve. As if they were less than witches and wizards. As if they were sub-beings.

The plight of the house elves still angered her.

But she pushed it aside and refocused on him.

"Would you like to read this book with me?"

Her tone was inviting.

Kreacher though seemed rather unconvinced. He cast his gaze to the floor.

"Too many words stuck together in too many rows for Kreacher, Mistress."

Hermione mulled this momentarily.

"Well, would you like _me_ to read to _you_?"

At this, Kreacher glanced up in surprise, then ducked his head, one long fingered hand fiddling with the locket even now around his neck.

"Kreacher should not disturb mistress' studies."

Hermione smiled invitingly.

"It's not a disturbance. I'll be reading either way."

So Kreacher hesitantly settled himself on the rug before her feet.

And Hermione Granger read the story of 'The Wizard and the Hopping Pot' to Kreacher, the Black Family house elf.

Who sat in reverent silence, a peaceful little expression lighting his wrinkled face.

That he probably didn't even know was there.

* * *

 **No, no Ron or romance here. But still my favorite chapter. Not sure what you guys will think.**

 **Thanks to DinahRay, my kind mystery guest, JeanandBilius, and brigid1318 for your reviews.**


	4. Difficult Decisions

I do not own Harry Potter anything.

But I do have a wand. Sorta.

Summer at Grimmauld Place

Tough Decisions

* * *

Hermione Granger stood in the steamy bath.

Completely dumbfounded.

She never forgot her wand. It was always next to her.

Always.

Especially in troubling times such as these.

And even when they weren't.

She _loved_ her wand.

It was the first magical item she had ever touched.

On the day that it chose her.

It was special.

It was made of vine wood and a dragon heartstring core.

And it was not here.

Determinedly, she closed her eyes.

Concentrated.

 _Accio, wand._

Opened her eyes.

And waited.

Nothing.

With a deep, calming breath, she closed her eyes.

And tried again.

 _Accio, wand._

Again, nothing.

She let out her breath.

 _Oh honestly._

And looked around.

The curtains wouldn't work. Too flimsy and thin.

The loo paper useless in this situation. Only dissolve and stick to her.

Her clothes, well, she had to put something on, didn't she?

So Hermione Jean Granger, a most clever witch, stood and thought.

She _never_ forgot her wand.

And she never forgot a towel either.

But there she had been, musing over possible clues in 'Babbity Rabbity' and she'd gone right into the bath.

Locked the door.

And just showered away.

It wasn't until she had turned the water off and reached for her towel that she had realized her mistake.

 _Unbelievable._

But, no worry, she'd just siphon off the water with her . . .

 _No. Way._

And there she was.

A brilliant witch, if she did say so herself.

Entrusted with a Time-Turner third year by Professor Dumbledore himself.

Creator and owner of a teeny beaded clutch imbued with an illegal Undetectable Extension Charm.

Stranded with no towel and no wand.

In a quite female-less House of Black.

Unless you counted the hateful Mistress Black's portrait.

Which she didn't.

She considered just remaining there in the bath, allowing herself to drip dry until she could re-dress and finally leave.

And decided the Dark Lord might be defeated before she and her thick, unmagicked, unmanageable hair dried.

And she was so _very_ chilly.

So there was only one option left.

Biting her lip anxiously, she opened the door.

Just a tiny bit.

"Kreacher?"

No answer.

That had been too much to hope for.

Still, she waited a bit, shivering and dripping water, before trying again.

"Harry?"

Nothing.

Hermione Granger wasn't one for obscenities.

But . . .

"Hermione, you alright?"

 _Oh bloody hell._

Everyone had their breaking point.

"Hello, Ronald."

And refrained from banging her head on the wall in frustration and shame.

Shuffling feet on the other side of the now firmly shut door.

And a repeat of the question.

"You alright then?"

She hesitated.

"Yes, thank you. I . . . I . . . I left my towel on the bed."

And it came to her.

Suddenly. Obviously. As if it had been there. All the time.

"And my wand on the bureau."

More shuffling, this time slightly embarrassed sounding.

Then the feet went away.

And came back.

"I've got it. Your towel. Pale blue, yeah?"

She hesitated again.

Opened the door a crack.

Thrust her arm through up to the elbow.

There was a brief pause.

In her mind's eye, she feverishly saw him lean down and kiss the upturned palm.

And came back to reality as cloth touched it instead.

Instantly, she grasped it, pulled it inside, and shut the door again.

"Thank you, Ronald," she called most formally, willing her voice not to shake.

The feet stayed still for a moment.

"You're welcome, Hermione."

Then they went away.

And Hermione Jean Granger never forgot her wand or her towel again.

Until years later.

When she meant to.

* * *

 **Okay, I can already hear some of you. Why do witches and wizards even need to take showers? Why didn't Ron just magic the towel into the bathroom? What are you** _ **writing**_ **, you twit?**

 **Meh, I'm just having fun here. And you keep reading, don't you? ;)**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, DinahRay, ChAvi, and JeanandBilius for your reviews! You guys are so sweet!**


	5. Discordant Chords

I do not own Harry Potter anything.

But I do have a wand. Sorta.

Summer at Grimmauld Place

Discordant Chords

* * *

Hermione Granger was a dedicated witch.

Very focused and very steadfast.

As already proven by the embarrassing shower debacle.

She couldn't search for clues and answers all the time though.

The words doubled. Her mind shut down.

Music helped. It was a well documented fact that music helped restore the brain's workings to their clearer capacity.

Except when Ron sat at the piano with her.

Ron and that smile of his.

And the way those eyes gazed at her when she caught him staring.

And she knew his feelings for her were there, bubbling just below the surface. Like a cauldron of superbly brewed Love Potion.

Only real.

And better.

What she _didn't_ know was that Molly Weasley had forced all her children to regularly practice the piano for _years_.

And that dear sweet Ronald knew how to play Beethoven's 'Fur Elise' quite well.

Along with several other songs.

And that he was only pretending to play badly so she would keep trying to help him learn.

Which she did.

For a good part of the afternoon.

* * *

"No, Ron," she restrained a smile. "Like this."

And she played again. Very slowly and precisely.

He returned her smile, a continuously dopey expression that made her insides turn into pudding.

He was also closer, having been inching toward her gradually for some time now.

Close enough to touch. Close enough to kiss.

Which he seemed to be very close to doing.

Now, in fact.

His fingers brushed the thin, delicate skin on the top of her piano hand.

Electrifying the sensitive nerves there.

"Ronald . . ."

Her voice trailed off.

This was _not_ what they were supposed to be doing here.

"Hmmm . . ."

They were supposed to be hatching a plan.

"Ronald . . ."

Figuring out the secrets of Beetle the Bard.

"Hmmm . . ."

Finding a way to stop the Dark Lord from destroying their entire world.

"Ronald . . ."

Not flouncing around like mindless, snogging, lovestruck. . .

"Hmmm. . ."

But he was so close, his _lips_ were so close.

And he smelled . . .

A door slammed.

The planted ghost in the hall roared.

And their third made himself known.

"Ron? Hermione?"

She jerked away, nearly falling off the piano bench.

Wretching herself up into standing position, wringing her hands, and straightening her magicked hair.

"In here, Harry!"

Harry Potter burst into the room, completely unaware that he was effectively skewering to death the heady, piano-playing romance of the moment.

"In the kitchen, hurry! I think I may have an idea!"

And swept back out again.

Hermione automatically began to follow.

Until she glanced back at Ron, now wearing a decidedly sullen expression to replace his formerly dreamy one.

"Ron? Aren't you coming? What is it?"

He shifted his eyes away from her, staring at the dark, drab wallpaper adorning the wall of the room.

"What, you ashamed of me?"

His face was drawn into a frown, pinched and dark.

She blinked in confusion, then helplessly in shame.

"What? No, of _course_ not."

Floundered for a moment.

"It's just, it's that . . . look, Harry's going through a lot right now . . ."

Trying to find the words to make him understand.

"Yeah, aren't we all," Ron interrupted sarcastically.

Ignored him and plowed on.

"And he misses Ginny."

Ron's face involuntarily flinched. No matter how much he professed to be fine with the romantic dalliances of Harry and Ginny, it was still and all, his little sister.

"I just don't want to make him feel more lonely," Hermione concluded weakly.

Her redhead grinned then, hopefully, obviously trying to pull off some charm of his own.

"Well, I'm lonely too. Don't you feel sorry for me?"

And he started to reach for her again.

Hermione's expression was embarrassed and annoyed and titillated all at once.

"Ronald!"

Ronald eased back a little.

"Well, okay, I get it."

He stood.

And pecked her cheek quickly, breath brushing her ear, before she could retaliate.

"But I don't have to like it, do I?"

Grinned wanly at her.

And went to find The Chosen One.

Leaving Hermione with a swirling mind, a pounding heart.

And tingling skin.

* * *

 **Poor ol' Ron can't even get a cuddle, can he? *hugs him***

 **Anyway, obviously inspired by the book/movie piano scene. Just going a bit further.**

 **Also, J.K. Rowling has said Ron knew how to play the piano because Mrs. Weasley made him and now he's just faking ignorance. Adorable! *high fives author***

 **And thanks to JeanandBilius and DinahRay and brigid1318 for your reviews!**

 **Thanks also to Marion13 (Robin Hood?) and tinabeanaaaa for adding your support to this story too!**

 **I got a wickedly fun chap coming up, hopefully sooner rather than later as it is almost the end of the schoolyear! Whoo-hoo! Almost time to send those lil' darlings home! :D**


	6. Parallels at Odds

I do not own Harry Potter anything.

But yay to the start of my own summer! Not at Grimmauld Place. I'm a muggle.

Summer at Grimmauld Place

Parallels at Odds

* * *

It had been a long, trying day of doing nothing of consequence.

Except waiting.

Waiting for Hermione to catch a clue in 'The Tales of Beedle the Bard'.

Waiting for Harry to have another vision informing him of some gruesome act of the the Dark Lord.

Waiting for You-Know-Who himself or one of his minions to crash through the door and destroy them all.

Insufferable, waiting was.

There were, however, other, less miserable aspects of their neverending internment.

Waiting.

Waiting for Hermione to let him kiss her.

Touch her.

Hear her laugh. See her smile.

Ron Weasley sighed.

And opened the door to the room he'd chosen for his own slumber.

And there she was.

Hermione Jean Granger.

Sitting on his borrowed bed.

"Hello, Ronald."

He opened his mouth to say . . .

 _Why are you sitting on my bed, Hermione . . ._

. . . something but closed it once more.

She didn't have on much garments, did Hermione.

Very unlike her.

And her eyes were smokier, heavier lidded.

Her hair, wavy and down, just the way he liked it.

"Hermione . . ." he began, somewhat baffled.

She shook her head, smiling a little.

Moved to him and put a finger to his lips.

A warm, soft finger.

He kissed it impulsively and her smile widened.

"My turn," she whispered.

And stepped fully into his arms.

"Hermione . . ."

Was all he could manage before her lips met his and took his breath away.

She was pressing herself fully against him and she was kissing him and he was kissing her and . . .

Sunlight was filtering in through the dirty window of the Black Family house as Ron's eyelids groggily opened.

And he realized it was morning.

And his dream was over.

* * *

Enchanted snowflakes fell from the ceiling, lightly dusting her ashes of roses colored dress and further adorning her carefully curled hair.

Hermione Granger smiled.

The Yule Ball was lovely.

Everyone was specially dressed, the air abuzz with excited chatter and activity.

And Ronald looked quite dashing in his crisp, damper robes.

He had come to her earlier that evening fit to be tied, as her Nan would've said.

Brown, ruffly, smelly old robes, sent from his mother.

Surely prank-magicked by Fred and George. From regular, decent, hand me downs into these ghastly apparels.

His face was such a picture of misery, she couldn't quite bear to laugh as she stood before him in her tightly knotted dressing robe.

"Oh, Ron! What have you got there?"

"Disaster!" he burst out. "I'm going to be the shame of the ball! And you, you can't be seen with me in this!"

She didn't care what he looked like.

Still . . .

She brandished her wand winningly.

"Well then, let's change them, shall we?"

And she did.

A decisive flourish, a concisely pronounced spell.

And there they were. Decent robes, well-fitted and and musk-free.

Ron leapt forward.

"Hermione, you're bloody brilliant!"

Pecked her cheek and squeezed her into giggles before she pushed him away.

"You're welcome. Now go, I need to get dressed."

He grinned devilishly.

"Oh, I can stay then."

"Ronald!"

He'd fled then, laughing and proudly holding his newly freshened dress robes out of the dust of the floor.

And now they stood together, watching the festivities play out before them for a moment.

"Care to dance?"

His breath was warm in her ear and it was all she could do to nod.

His step was smooth and easy for her to follow.

"Ron, have you been practicing?"

He nodded a little sheepishly.

"Ginny. She made me promise to do her laundry for a month in the summer."

Hermione laughed and smiled prettily up at him.

"It was worth it, Ron. You're wonderful."

He blushed to match his hair and spun her around before bringing her back.

Off to the side, she saw Victor Krum dancing with one of the beaming Patel sisters.

He had been attempting to make interest of her as of late.

Until Ron had asked her to the ball one night over homework.

And she'd accepted.

Now as Ron slowly lowered his head to meet her lips with his own spearmint-flavored ones, Hermione was delighted to feel she'd made the right choice.

The snowflakes continued to fall and . . .

Sunlight was filtering in through the dirty window of the Black Family house as Hermione's eyelids groggily opened.

And she realized it was morning.

And her dream was over.

* * *

Ron munched contentedly on his toad in a hole, prepared for him by a moderately talented Kreacher.

He smiled through a generous mouthful as Hermione stomped in the room, silently grabbing a slice of toast and the jam jar.

She ignored him, plopping down at the far end of the table away from him.

He wondered briefly if she could read his mind and had discovered the dream his love-fevered mind had contrived during the night.

He blushed.

Then redirected himself.

"You alright then, Hermione?"

Again, stony silence.

He gathered his plate and his cup and moved to sit near her.

As his posterior touched the wooden plank, Hermione's popped up from hers.

"Not now, Ronald!"

And she stormed out with anger painted all over her.

Leaving behind jam-ladened toast.

He followed in her stormy wake.

"Hermione . . ."

She never even looked back, plopped down on a divan and stuck her nose in 'The Tales of Beedle the Bard' for the dozenth time.

"Pardon, Ronald, must get to reading, you know."

He stood uncertainly for a long moment before obediently leaving her to it.

 _Wonder what's got her knickers in a twist?_

 _He didn't ask me. He acted a brat and never asked me. I went with Victor Krum and Ronald ruined everything and pouted like a child._

 _Wonder if she really did read my dream._

 _It should have been Ronald. It should have been._

She kept to herself all day.

And apologized to him later.

But did not tell him why.

* * *

 **I have literally been mad at my husband over my own dreams that he had no clue about, ha.**

 **Good man tho. ;)**

 **That being said, thanks to DinahRay, JeanandBilius, brigid1318, and my two mystery guests for your reviews.**

 **Thanks as well to Rainbow Lava Ninjas (high fiving you for _that_ one) for adding your support to this tale.**


	7. Waiting for Sleep

I do not own Harry Potter anything.

But yay to the start of my own summer! Not at Grimmauld Place. I'm a muggle.

Summer at Grimmauld Place

Waiting for Sleep

* * *

They lay still in the dark.

Huddled near the cold fireplace in a corner of the sitting room in the House of Black.

Harry had just endured a particularly dreadful attack of his connection with Voldemort.

He tried to pass it off but the pain in his head and the horror of his visions were nothing neither Ron nor Hermione could ignore.

He had practically collapsed onto the nearest couch in exhaustion and succumbed to deep, hopefully dreamless, sleep.

Leaving the other two inhabitants of the house quite alone together.

"Well, I suppose we should try to rest as well," Hermione suggested. "There's no telling how long we'll have peace."

Seeming to rise to the challenge, Siruis' mother's portrait suddenly gave a few cries of ' _mudblood, filth, traitors'_ before calling it a night.

Ron and Hermione barely flinched, so used to her rantings they'd become.

Ron even smiled slightly when she stopped.

"Old bird gave up quick tonight then."

And Hermione returned the smile.

Then Ron offered her the couch.

She started to suggest they bring another couch from another room but Ron stopped her.

"Ah, come on, woman. Let a man live rough, eh?"

Causing her to smile again.

So she'd settled on the couch and Ron arranged his pillow pallet to his his liking.

Very near to her.

And diminished the lights with his Deluminator.

Sleep would not make friends so easily. Unsurprising with all that was going on.

"He's getting worse."

She didn't realize she had spoken aloud until she heard her own whisper.

And hoped she hadn't woken Ron.

"Yeah," he replied, so clearly that she knew he'd never been asleep.

"We're not any closer to figuring out the Horcruxes."

"Nope," answered the man-boy on the floor.

"I don't know what we're going to do."

She didn't mean to say it. Something so despondent and unhelpful.

But she had.

He seemed to ruminate on that for a moment or two.

"Well, whatever it is, we'll do it together, Hermione."

She reached out then, stretching out her hand in the darkness.

And his found it. Held it. Squeezed it reassuringly.

And she didn't feel quite so alone and small.

"Thanks, Ron."

She could feel him smile at her in the dark.

"Don't mention it."

And when she slowly fell asleep and her hand relaxed by increments and finally went limp, he held on to it awhile longer.

Alternatively squeezing and rubbing her fingers with his own.

Until he too succumbed to sleep.

And they were at peace.

For a little while.

* * *

 **Well, that's all for this lil fic! :)**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, DinahRay, WeasleyismyKing540, and JeanandBilius for your reviews!**

 **Thanks also to malfoysmarie for adding your support to this tale.**

 **See you guys some other time for another story. Of something!**


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